Gamba. Nay, neither in my own light, nor as a Fool.  So should myself stand between the sun and my shadow; whereas I am not myself—­these seven years have I been but the shadow of a Fool.  Yet one must tune up for the Duke.

(Strikes his viol and sings.)

“Bird of the South, my Rondinello——­”

Flat-Flat!

Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof). Ho there!  What news?

A Voice. Captain, no sail!

Cesario. Where sits The wind?

Voice. Nor’ west, and north a point!

Cesario. Perchance They have down’d sail and creep around the flats.

Gamba (tuning his viol). Flats, flats! the straight horizon, and the life
These seven years laid by rule!  The curst canal
Drawn level through the drawn-out level sand
And thistle-tufts that stink as soon as pluck’d! 
Give me the hot crag and the dancing heat,
Give me the Abruzzi, and the cushioned thyme—­
Brooks at my feet, high glittering snows above. 
What were thy music, viol, without a ridge?

[Noise of commotion in the city below.

Cesario.  Watchman, what news?

A Voice.  Sir, on the sea no sail!

One of the Crowd.  But through the town below a horseman spurs—­ I think, Count Lucio!  Yes—­Count Lucio!  He nears, draws rein, dismounts!

Cesario.  Sure, he brings news.

Gamba.  I think he brings word the Duke is sick; his loyal folk have drunk so much of his health.

[A murmur has been growing in the town below.  It breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing up to the terrace.

Enter Lucio.

Lucio. News!  Where’s the Regent?  Eh? is Mass not said? 
Cesario, news!  I rode across the dunes;
A pilot—­Nestore—­you know the man—­
Came panting.  Sixteen sail beyond the point! 
That’s not a galley lost!

Crowd. Long live the Duke!

Lucio. Hark to the tocsin!  I have carried fire—­ Wildfire!  Why, where’s my sister?  I’ve a mind—­

[He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but pauses at the sound of chanting within, and comes back to Cesario.

Man, are you mute?  I say the town’s aflame
Below!  But here, up here, you stand and stare
Like prisoners loosed to daylight.  Rub your eyes,
Believe!

Cesario (musing). It has been long.

Lucio. As tapestry
Pricked out by women’s needles; point-device
As saints in fitted haloes.  Yet they stab,
Those needles.  Oh, the devil take their tongues!

Cesario. Why, what’s the matter?

Lucio. P’st! another lie
Against the Countess Fulvia; and the train
Laid to my sister’s ear.  Cesario,
My sister is a saint—­and yet she married: 
Therefore should understand ...  Would saints, like cobblers,
Stick but to business in this naughty world! 
Ah, well! the Duke comes home.